amateur night
in the electric
chair, a bundle
of almost nothing
rocked awake
by a mime
it was with me
absence
when I took
a shape / the alien
had wheeled its thing
in dog years
to nothing
as real as a grocery cart
in the kingdom
of sickness, as the store
I belong to, as the lonely
wheelchair
enthusiast, as the candle
lit
that becomes
the idiot’s
flower, as god, as real
as the owls
of those who’ve groomed
their spineless
sons
to wash
the hair
of the one
still
giving birth
on a rooftop, books
by the baby
nickname
no luck
at the inn
the couple
entered
the garden
god
he mourned
the lizard’s
tail
they, the death
their distracted
baby
I want
again
my brothers
to fight.
one
the animal judge of god’s time here
the other
the ocean’s
only
ghost.
sleep
an absent-minded
saint
in the pallbearer’s
dream
of outhouse
moons
the flame
the phantom
limb
of my
informer
pain
as the upkeep
of amnesia
my arms had ears
hundreds
of baby
ears, crop
of silence…
don’t itch
what the brain
can reach
reading
in the extra
room
that which
you wrote
to stay
I could be
a scarecrow
with a pack
of condoms, a nose
breather
with a broken
jaw, a poor
even
for poverty
fuck
mixed-up
in a case
of correct
identity, all three
perhaps
praying
in a cave
over a can
of paint
I, you, born
inside
a baby
knowing
obsession
would starve
kingsoftrain 